three days they took to find you
lying heavy in the sickly dew
like jewels on those corrupted lips.
afraid of the cold they paced
like beasts, eyes wildly rolling
til fitful sleep delivered false hope and transitory interludes
yet terror like a meandering twine choked them awake
in damp and fretful starts
to begin again this vigil.
lying curled in arched defiance
eye glassily staring
you felt not the cruelty of the winters night
that wrapped you in its star-spattered shroud
and took your tiny hand
leading you through this hungry darkness,
brushing your hair against your china forehead
so still in your sleep as the mourning hands of the night stroke your sad face.
all around the world is weeping great tears of sickened sorrow
at the death of a child.
the loss, malignant, eats them, hollows them
till they find you, those three days later
and in melancholy resignation you are lifted from your stolen bed
beneath the tortured boughs of a twisting tree.
hair a stark black spray on the grass
as the wind, like a solemn choir, sings the songs of sorrow
to serenade you, child.
as the weeds grow under you
white faces streaked with grief bleed anger from the television.
